


looking at you

by livbartlet



Category: RED (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 09:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14257602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livbartlet/pseuds/livbartlet
Summary: pre-Red William Cooper fic, because why not?Back of the room, looking at you,counting the steps between us105 little blades in a line,from your skin to mine, and I feel them.





	looking at you

 

~~_Urban Mating Rituals: Theories in Love and CounterSurveillance_ ~~

_Looking at You_

  


She's marking up essays—part of her T.A. duties,  "SubState Warfare in Post-Colonial Africa"; nursing a bottle of good local brew—her god-granted duty as a student; and watching the usual Georgetown pub comings, goings, social minglings—her indulgence as a student of human behavior.

 

It's a typical weeknight for Michelle LeBlanc, all things told. Comfortable at the back corner table that is pretty much hers—staked-out territory is an imperative in this environment—having a bartender as a roommate has its advantages, she will admit.

 

The latest roving band of men coming through the main entrance grab her attention and she plays her little game—not college students, at least not undergrads—just a little too old and a little not boisterous enough; ex-military all—haircuts too short but not long enough yet; civilized, at least to the casual observer—which Michelle is not; _operators_ , it dawns on her as every single one of them takes the room and available exits into account before they choose a table—not a booth—and half of them take a view of the entrance and one of them clearly takes the kitchen door. Hyper-situational awareness, even when going out for drinks with the guys. Interesting. They're a little outside what their usual stomping grounds should be, whatever alphabet agency it is they belong to.

 

Then the tallest of the three who are covering the entrance turns and catches her eyes on him. His stare is direct, a little arrogant, but not at all sexual—just identifying a prickle on his neck. She raises an eyebrow right back at him and turns back to the pile of essays with her red pen.

 

These guys are way far afield, of that much she's certain. What the hell are half a dozen recent graduates of The Farm doing at a student bar in Georgetown?

  
  
  
  


Security Studies, maybe? That's all she can think of when they appear again the next week. That Langley has set them loose for some post-graduate education. But that doesn't explain why she only sees them  at a bar, never anywhere at the college or near a classroom.

 

Three weeks later, she's impressed at their apparent lack of routine—it's always a different day, different dot on the clock. She half entertains the thought of following one night as they leave, see if their training is as good as they think it is. Situational awareness is one thing, but counter-surveillance on relatively quiet night in a university neighborhood? She almost does it, too, but then reminds herself that she is only an academic, merely a theoretical student, never an active one, in the school of intelligence operations.

 

Besides, getting caught would be a bitch to explain to her dad. _Just testing your students for funsies_...Nope.

  
  
  
  
  


The semester progresses, the pile of essays is never-ending, and the young agents continue to hang out at her bar. She starts to focus on the one—the tall one with quirky eyebrows—in her observations. His hair is getting longer, he wears a suit jacket well, and she approves. He could almost pass as the next hotshot investment banker if it weren't for his bearing. But maybe it only screams Marines to her. Most people are pretty clueless when they want to be, which even inside the Beltway is pretty much most of the time.

 

She even confesses to Pam late one night, deep in red wine and tiramisu, "I can't stop _looking_ at him, he's just...guh."

 

"Which one is he?"

 

"The tall one, with the eyes and the hands and the...he's fucking beautiful, how can you not have noticed?!"

 

"Girl, I'm serving up drinks, not thinking about hooking up with the customers."

 

"Completely—now and forever—a theoretical proposition, but god what a theory!"

 

"You need to get laid."

 

"Shut up."

 

"Scientific method—hypothesis has gotta be tested. You need to talk to this man. And then screw his brains out."

 

"For science."

 

"Totally."

  
  
  
  
  


"Buy you a drink?" She is sans work tonight—it's Saturday and she's got on her favorite cranberry-colored sweater, the one with the neckline, and the apple-ass jeans and the confidence to go with it.

 

"Thought you'd never ask", his eyes practically twinkle at her while his friends fade into the background.

 

"Michelle," she offers her hand and when he touches her all her nerves spark like the goddamn 4th of July.

 

"Cooper," he returns and follows her to the bar.

  
  
  
  
  


He seems to understand that she's a woman on a mission. He definitely concurs with the mission goals.

 

His hands make short work of removing the sweater, while her fingers work furiously on the buttons of his shirt. The undressing is hasty and hot. The sex is hotter. His tongue is avid, skilled. Her hands can't get enough of his lean, muscled body.

 

The match each other—thrust and power and hunger. And when it's done, their breaths match in ragged rhythms and their skins are unwilling to separate.

 

He kisses her, slowly, more than post-coital necessity.

 

"Mmm," she meets his eyes again—they're greener than she thought. "Better late than never, I guess—Cooper what?"

 

"William Cooper."

 

"It's nice to meet you."

  
  



End file.
